


contempt

by monomu



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, M/M, Multi, Necrophilia, Physical Abuse, Riding, rigor mortis cockblocks again, so p much endgame spoilers, spoilers for the sixth palace obv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 19:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11447532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monomu/pseuds/monomu
Summary: Even as Akechi moves to point the gun at his temple, Akira doesn’t drop the act of listlessness. He remains still, true to his morals, and it’s so sickening that Akechi can’t help the way his arm swings up and crashes back down with a swift motion.





	contempt

He makes sure to keep everything intact. The lilt of his voice, the sweetness in his eyes, the openness of his stance; Akechi plays up his honor roll act, set on seeing it out through to the end. He asks for the guard to accompany him into the interrogation room, a smile never leaving his face.

It stays there even as he shoots the man in the back.

“Honey, I’m home,” Akechi mocks. The door shuts behind him, clicking into place as he steps closer to the steel table, closer to Akira, closer to retribution. The fear in the boy’s eyes is enough to send him into a fit of laughter, though void it may sound. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” he asks through a wide grin, eyes dazed. “I came all this way for you, after all.”

Akira, so beaten and bruised, says nothing— _does_ nothing. He only peers down at the guard who now lays dead, following him with his eyes. He’s so painstakingly barren and unresponsive, and it makes Akechi’s stomach cave in on itself.

“I wish I could see the surprise on your face,” he drones on, eye twitching. “But for an idiot, you certainly are perceptive.” Akechi steps over the corpse, shoes clacking in the silence of the room. “It almost ruins the fun.”

Still no response. No sign of understanding, no hints of aggravation, no lingering traces of betrayal. Kurusu Akira is unfazed and he stares up into Akechi’s eyes, gaze dead and detached as they lock sights. His hands, uncuffed from his previous interrogation, make no move to defend himself. They rest on the cold of the table, exhausted.

“At least _say something_!” He shouts with a force that is foreign to him, his free hand slamming down mere centimeters away from battered hands. He takes pride in the way Akira clenches his jaw. “Aren’t you angry? Don’t you hate me? Won’t you give me anything to work with?” The silence is suffocating. “I put on quite the show for you, y’know. It’s only fair that you do the same for me.”

Even as Akechi moves to point the gun at his temple, Akira doesn’t drop the act of listlessness. He remains still, true to his morals, and it’s so sickening that Akechi can’t help the way his arm swings up and crashes back down with a swift motion. Akira’s head whips to the side, jaw reddening as Akechi clutches the gun even harder in his hand, holding it close. He can see the boy roll something around in his mouth.

“What do you have?” Akechi grimaces. “Spit it out.” Akira makes no moves to do so. “I said _spit it out_.” His chest heaves as he watches the trickster look his way once more, his eyes gloss over as he sees him purse his lips, and his mouth forms a snarl as the boy spits blood onto his shoe.

A scoff. “You’re just so charming,” Akechi grits through his teeth. Taking a step forward, he leans back and presses his weight onto the table, jumping up to sit on its surface. “Now, we’re going to stop playing your childish games, yeah?” He brings his foot up, moving his bloodied shoe to press against Akira’s chest.

“Throwing a tantrum already?” Akira points out with a smug grin. His pupils are like an abyss, sucking up what measly light is present in the room. He doesn’t move, save for the way he places his hands in his lap.

Akechi only raises his foot, moving the tip to rest at the edge of Akira’s mouth. “I think it’d be best if you cleaned up your mess,” he quips, voice level. “A clean home is a happy environment, after all.” At the sight of Akira pointedly looking away, Akechi kicks his foot into his jaw. It’s not enough to draw blood, but it’s enough to spark pain in the sore spot. “The next time I have to repeat an order is when a bullet is going to make permanent residence in your head. Now: open your mouth and clean up this mess, Kurusu.”

Begrudgingly, Akira does as he’s told. Akechi looks on with fascinated eyes, gaze hungry and wanting like he’s watching a porno for the first time. His tongue is long, slowly lapping up the blood that stains Akechi’s footwear. His eyes are lidded, borderline closed, but he has to see where the damage is in order to fix anything. His breath mingles in the air, huffs coming out in spurts and lips trembling with every exhale. He looks absolutely _divine_. Blood stains the edges of his mouth, lingers on his muzzle and leaks down his chin. Akechi can see the way his nose curls up, stimulated by the smell of iron.

“I don’t think that was too hard,” Akechi comments. “Now tell me, did you swallow it?” Akira blanches, throat bobbing as he hurries to fulfill his next command. He threatens to gasp aloud from the mere idea of doing such a thing, but the thought of blood spilling past his lips backs him into a corner, sealing his mouth shut. “You don’t have to be afraid.” Akechi chuckles, low and breathy as he slides off the table, face edging closer to Akira’s. “It’s a simple _yes_ or _no_.” Seconds tick by before Akira shakes his head, gaze averting. “Perfect.”

Akechi presses the barrel of the gun against Akira’s stomach, making his position known before grabbing onto the teen’s shitty, tousled excuse of a hairstyle with a gloved hand. He persuades his neck to lift up, chins bumping as Akechi arranges himself. He prods at Akira with an open mouth, tongue snaking through his lips to catch a taste of crimson. They glide together for a quick moment, Akechi sighing into the intimacy of it all. He grows a bit lightheaded at the act, gun losing its pressure against Akira’s torso. Blood is pushed into his mouth, overwhelming his tastebuds as he struggles to keep up with the flow.

Two hands pull at his jacket, holding him close and keeping him steady, the threat of homicide doing nothing to dissuade Akira from finding purchase. Akechi keeps his eyes open, watches as Akira begins pressing into their sloppy embrace, watches as the teen’s breath hitches in his throat. He can feel himself grow closer and closer to Akira, chests flush against one another as Akechi ambles into his lap. The gun rests forgotten, barely a presence at the juvenile’s side.

“Someone’s eager,” Akechi pants, breathless as he breaks away. A smile tugs at his eyes, lips curling as he grinds down strongly. There’s an ache in his chest, a feeling of emptiness that consumes him and backs him into a corner. He feels like a mess, certain he looks like one as well. Pupils dilated and face smeared with blood, Akechi has never felt more connected to another human being.

A sharp intake of breath can be heard, along with the image of Akira holding his breath before releasing shakily. He dares to press his hands against Akechi’s clothed stomach, palms travelling upward as he grows braver. He receives no backlash, but instead small encouragement in the form of slow nods. Akechi allows himself to grow used to his touch for a few more moments, drinking up the contact with a lustful shiver.

After a while, he rises, legs quivering as he takes a few steps away from Akira. He draws his gun once more, pointing it lazily for the sake of being able to say that _he_ is the one in control. Nobody else.

“I’d like to try a little something,” Akechi states. “Would you mind?” There’s a rumble to his voice and as he gestures for Akira to kneel down next to him, there’s no hesitance in the leader’s eyes. He slides off his seat and walks on his knees, opposite of Akechi from where he sits next to the dead guard. Blood pools around the two, staining their trousers, and the warmth feels foreign.

Motioning to help him flip the man on his back, Akira does so with a nod. He’s much stronger than Akechi, even while swayed by the final traces of whatever drug they pumped through his system. Akira turns the man over with ease, needing little assistance, and he sits back on his knees while he waits for the events to come.

Moving south, Akechi begins his ministrations of working on the belt buckle of the guard. There’s traces of red all along the front of his shirt and partway onto his slacks. He sets the gun down next to himself, but it’s too far away from Akira to grab without being blocked. Akechi supposes Akira could pull it off if he were feeling brave enough, but one look at the stupefied boy gives him all the confirmation he needs.

“Unfortunately,” Akechi sighs, “It’s a myth that one can get erect once rigor mortis has set in. Though, he can become stiff and stay flaccid, but it’s still far too early for any changes to occur.” He lowers the man’s pants and boxers slowly, not bothering to bring them down lower than mid thigh. “But we’ll just make do with what we have, won’t we? I’m known to be _very_ resourceful.” Akira nods. “Come here.” He waves him over with a simple gesture, bringing him close. He makes sure to hold the gun in his hand with a strong grip.

Akechi’s breath is warm and the words he whisper sound deafening as they ghost along Akira’s neck. “You’re going to suck him off,” Akechi purrs. “And you’re going to be patient while I watch.” Akira nods dumbly and it spurs the detective on even more, filling him with a false sort of confidence that passes off well enough to be real.

Slowly, Akechi climbs over to the man’s head, careful to turn the safety on the gun, and he stares down scornfully at his bland features. He almost feels bad for killing the man as collateral damage. _Almost_. Palming himself, Akechi spares a glance up to witness Akira start to lick a stripe up the man’s length, obviously inexperienced and unsure of what to do. His eyes dart up to look at Akechi, but he quickly goes back to focusing on his own task. He’s hesitant, but shows no sign of stopping.

Nodding to himself, Akechi undoes his own belt, zipping his pants down and exposing himself to the chill of the interrogation room. He sits up on feeble legs and positions himself atop the man’s face, opening his mouth to peer inside. Saliva has already begun to gather in his mouth, something Akechi is thankful for, and he all but shoves his cock into the guard’s mouth, rocking into him carefully. Teeth scrape along the length of his shaft, there’s no tongue to provide suction, and his lips are slack, yet Akechi still finds himself unbelievably turned on. He fucks into the guard’s mouth, careful not to go too deep in fear of a working gag reflex. At another time, he supposes he wouldn’t mind, but he’s got a different motivator today.

Across the lane, Akira grows more confident, mouth bobbing up and down to take in as much as he can. Tears emerge at the edge of his eyes, threatening to roll down as he breathes heavily through his nose. From what Akechi can see, Akira’s legs are squeezed together, feet kicking out every few seconds. He slides off of the guard’s length with a keen, eyes shut as he pumps the man’s cock with one hand.

There’s a swelling in Akechi’s chest as he watches, a sort of weight that bears down on him and leaves him craving for more, more, _more_. He can feel himself edge closer to finishing, so he pulls out of the guard’s mouth, hips stuttering as he pauses his activity. He leans over and crawls toward Akira, guiding his face away from the guard and toward his own, their lips meeting in an uneventful mash of incoordination.

“You’re—” _ah_ “Quite proficient, hm?” Akechi breaks away to suck on Akira’s clavicle, fingers stretching his clothes down so he can get access. After no sufficient results, he decides to tear his clothing altogether, ripping the fabric with a moderate struggle.

“We should move,” Akira gasps out, head lolling back at the feel of a tongue prodding at his skin. Akechi only ponders the idea for a second, realizing that yes, crouching in front of one another was bound to put an uncomfortable strain on the two. He gives a nod and yanks the boy down, desperate to keep the contact.

Shaking his head, Akira flips the two over, allowing Akechi to straddle his hips as he lays back.

“You’re too kind,” the detective says with an eye roll. He returns to kissing at Akira’s chest, moving up so he can suck and bite his neck, marring his skin with bruises to add to his total. He can feel Akira work his way down to grip his cock, warm hand stroking slowly to work him up. His other hand makes itself cozy on his scalp, fingers running through the softness of his hair. As Akechi ruts into Akira’s fist, voice choked while he pants with every stroke, it’s only then that he realizes the gun is finally within reach of Akira. It rests no more than two feet away, yet neither have made a move to retrieve it. Akechi laughs.

“I want you to fuck me,” he breathes out. Akira can only nod once more, hips lifting as Akechi pulls his pants and briefs down and tosses them away. He stays there, mute, waiting for Akechi to remove his own clothes. It’s cold in there, still and drab, but they can’t be bothered by the chill with the way their breaths intermingle, warming up their already flushed skin.

“Are you going to be okay?” Akira asks, throat closing off as Akechi lowers himself.

“Y-you think I came here just to kill you?” Akechi asks through gritted teeth. “I had time to kill while Sae-san was interrogating you.” He grimaces as he feels Akira’s length press into him, slowing his movements so as not to rush too much. He’d prepared himself before heading over to kill the boy, but that’d been some time ago. “Haha, do you want to know something?”

Staring up into unfocused eyes, Akira nods.

“I thought I loved you, once,” Akechi admits. “I thought we were meant to be. How stupid.” He sinks lower, ignoring the stinging that comes with it, and begins to rock back and forth on Akira’s cock.

“I did, too,” Akira reveals. “Before you betrayed us.” He steadies Akechi with his hands, gripping onto his sides to keep him close.

“What a foolish idea. I was leading you on the whole time. There was no _before_ ,” Akechi scoffs. “Not my fault that you and your band of idiots were too blind to notice anything.” He tries to sit up a bit more so he can lower himself down with a flourish, but he’s interrupted by Akira’s words. It was interesting, at first, to hear him respond. Now, it’s only clouding his thoughts.

“We wanted to help you,” he laments. “We still do. If only you’ll let us.” His face has grown softer, eyes significantly more tired, and Akechi wants to punch that demeaning expression off of his face.

“I don’t need your _pity_ ,” Akechi spits out. He leans down, rolling his hips with ease, and plants his lips next to Akira’s ear. “Unlike yourself, I’m fully capable of getting what I want.”

“We can make things right,” Akira persists.

At that, Akechi stops himself and sits up, back straight as he stares down coldly. “Do you feel sorry for me? Is that what this is? You’re looking down on me?” His voice rises in pitch, throat straining as he crumbles. “Is that why we’re like this, now? Why I’m riding you and why you _haven’t picked up my fucking gun_!?” His breaths come out labored, shallow and fast paced, and he can’t focus on the face in front of him, on the body next to him, on the ground below him.

“It’s because you don’t deserve this,” Akira explains. “I still care about you. And if fucking on the floor of this goddamn interrogation room is the way to show you my feelings—my _guilt_ —then so be it. You’ve been dealt a shitty hand, Akechi.”

Without warning, Akechi grips the sides of Akira’s head, fingers tangled in dark hair and lungs screaming as he bangs his head into the concrete floor. He only needs to do it once to feel satisfied—to feel _content—_ with the sound of his skull thudding against the ground. The look of shock on Akira’s face drives him closer to the edge, gives him the push he needs to separate himself with gritted teeth and reach for the gun.

“I’m doing what I need to do! I’m making a name for myself! You don’t give your cards back to the dealer, and you most _definitely_ don’t get _help_ from the other players. You fucking _play your cards_ and you win or you lose.” He presses the gun to his temple, clicking off the safety before he rests a quivering finger above the trigger. “And it would seem that you’ve lost, Kurusu Akira.”

Akechi pulls the trigger with a snarl, eyes wide as blood and brain matter shoot out from both the front and back of Akira’s head. More blood stains the floor, creeping ever so slowly toward nothingness. The thick liquid warms his bare legs as Akechi continues to straddle Akira, tears slipping out in frustration.

Nobody respected him. Nobody thought he was fine on his own. They all looked down on him. They all see him for the bastard child he is—see him for the worthless, helpless brat that he is.

Ignoring his insecurities, Akechi mounts Akira once more, fucking himself on his cock with harsh bounces and exaggerated moans. He drowns out his heartbeat. He mutes the sound of his hiccups. He focuses on the feeling of fullness, drawing out cry after cry as he reaches the release he had originally planned for. Even as he cums, viscous stripes painting Akira’s chest, he continues to ride the boy. His legs hurt, his ass feels raw, and the gun in his hand relieves itself of five more bullets, landing square in Akira’s chest.

Gingerly removing himself once more, Akechi stands on wobbly legs, walking much like a newborn fawn. His hair is matted with blood, his legs are crusting over with red, and his eyes are blinded as he screws them shut.

“I already lost a long time ago,” Akechi shudders.

**Author's Note:**

> [akechi voice] if you give your cards back youre a pussy


End file.
